The Ruthless Caleb Wilde

“She works with you?”

“No. But our work schedules are similar.”

“Yeah, well, where would she have been tonight?”

It was an excellent question, and a complicated one, starting with the fact that “she” was a “he” named David.

Sage was definitely not in the mood to answer it.

“Look,” she said, “I admit that this is—it’s not exactly a great neighborhood. And, thanks to you, I didn’t have to deal with the subway. So thank you again, here’s your jacket, and—”

“Keep it,” he said gruffly.

“At least give me your address so I can—”

“You can give it back to me after I get you to your door.”

“No. That isn’t nec—”

Caleb got out of the limo and walked around it.

“No arguments. I’m seeing you inside and that’s that.”

“Do you always get your own way?”

“I do when it matters.”

He could almost see her weighing his words. Finally, she sighed. Some of the belligerence went out of her expression. Caleb held out his hand.

Sage hesitated, then took it.

His hand was warm, his grip powerful. She fought the desire to wind their fingers together.

The truth was, she’d run out of bravado.

His reminder that without him she’d have been walking home alone had done it, especially when she knew there’d been a recent string of assaults in the neighborhood on women who lived alone.

Not that she lived alone.

Not exactly.

The bottom line was that there was nothing to gain by pretending she didn’t appreciate his help.

“Thank you,” she said, as they climbed the steps to the stoop. “Again.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. I’m glad to be able to help.” When they reached the front door, he held out his hand. “Your keys.”

She shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. “The lock’s broken.”

He wanted to say something. She could see it. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, opened the door …

And said something low and unpleasant.

She couldn’t blame him.

She felt the same way each time she stepped into the dark, dirty entryway, inhaled the stink of beer and pee and marijuana, saw the banged-up doors that lined the hall and the wooden stairs that rose into the gloom.

Say something, she told herself, say anything.

“Well,” she said brightly, “this is it.”

He looked at her as if she were crazy.

“My apartment is on the fourth floor.”

Still nothing from him. Or—wait. There was … something. A tiny glint in his blue eyes.

“What in hell are you doing in a place like this?”

She thought of half a dozen answers. Any one of them would tell him things far more personal than he needed to know.

“I live here,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and she started toward the stairs.

She didn’t get very far before his hands closed on her shoulders and he swung her toward him.

“Dammit,” he said gruffly, “cut the act! It’s a good routine, pretending you’re tough and street-smart, but I was there an hour ago when the price of that act got too high.” She gasped as he lifted her to her toes. “Anything could happen to you here.”

“Nothing has.”

“Really? Is that what you call what went on tonight?”

“That had nothing to do with this.”

“You work in a dangerous place. You live in a dangerous place.”

“It’s called doing what I can to keep a roof over my head.”

“Don’t you have anyone who can help you?”

“I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can see—”

One of the apartment doors swung open. Two men stepped into the hall. They were big and ugly; half of one’s face was a blur of homemade tattoos.

Sage had seen them before. They made a habit of saying things to her, ugly things; one always made a clicking sound with his mouth when she walked by.

They scared the hell out of her.